Can I come out of hibernation now? We’re 684 days on and we’ve finally come to the end of January. It would actually be a fine month — certainly no worse than say February, March or even October (quite a nothing time of year, when you think about it) — if it wasn’t for Dry January. Two words to send an icy spasm down one’s spine. Veganuary too must receive an honourable mention for its smug buzz-killing.
January could actually be great if we didn’t self-inflict such pain. It has all the makings of a stellar month. Sure, it’s no May, with its many bank holidays (especially this year, many thanks for that, Your Majesty) or June — home of Wimbledon, Glastonbury and the longest day of the year — but I’d put up a (fairly weak) fight that January could become a vintage month — if we snapped out of this abstinence mindset and grabbed January with some enthusiasm. I don’t mean resolutions — though a new calendar year can call for goal-setting, reflection and refocusing, if that’s what’s needed — but doing all of this in miserable sobriety is not the way. Cold, dark nights call for long pub sessions, dinner parties and meandering chats with friends. That’s where the good ideas, inspiration and spontaneity come from. Not from forcing another mocktail into your face and dragging yourself out of bed for a freezing 5am bootcamp in the soggy park. That is not living. The average life expectancy in the UK is 83 — that’s a lot of Januarys, so don’t spend them joylessly. What a waste of precious time.
It’s as if when December ends and January begins, all the happiness gets sucked out of the world into a bleak vortex where it’s held hostage until February 1. Where December was all cheeky after-work pints and can’t-breathe-for-laughing moments, January is filled with triggering phrases like: “I’ll have a soda and lime, please” or “do you fancy going to the cinema?” So I’ve done what anyone with a will to live would do and hidden from Dry January bores.
It’s not me, I tell them, it’s most certainly you. I’ve received voice notes (at an always-unacceptable length of over four minutes) complaining about another boring booze-free weekend, a dear friend has regaled me with her Friday night spent rearranging her Tupperware cupboard before falling asleep on the sofa at 8:30pm, another went to an escape room for something to do. I want nothing to do with this kind of deviant behaviour. Instead, I’ve tried, despite the best efforts of the cult of Dry January, to have a lovely month — I booked a cheap weekend away with my husband, threw a suitably boozy lunch for my non-Dry January friends (disappointingly, a few temporary teetotallers did sneak in but they mostly behaved) and quite raucously celebrated the birthdays of colleagues. It’s been a blast, just like I hope February will be and March — and every month after that. If you’ve managed to do Dry January, I applaud your will power, I just hope you’ve got some friends left to fall off the wagon with.
Brits need Beyoncé, and how
I’m thrilled at reports that the powers that be at the BRIT Awards are trying to twist Beyoncé’s arm into performing at next month’s ceremony at the O2. Obviously getting the world’s biggest pop star to attend, let alone perform, would be a huge coup — these days Beyoncé doesn’t appear to get out of bed for less than $24 million (if the rumours of her fee for a concert at a luxury Dubai hotel opening are to be believed).
The BRITs could do with redeeming themselves. The decision to go gender-neutral and scrap the ‘best male’ and ‘best female’ category has meant no women have been nominated for the Best Artist category this year. Not one.
The album of the year list is also overrun by men, with Wet Leg the only female-led act on it. To have the greatest living performer on stage — who happens to be a woman — might reddress that balance.
